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Sunday, December 16, 2012

For my other Grace

There was a Grace McDonnell, age 7, in that elementary class at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. And I thought of my Grace, and other Graces we know, when I saw her name.

It could have easily been my Grace, or your child. And there but for the grace of God, go I.

A wonderful writer whom I admire, from Philadelphia, Dan Gottlieb, wrote about the tragedy. He is much more eloquent than I. And he included a poem from Ellen Bass.

Amen, and God Bless Grace.

In the wake of the mass murder in a Connecticut elementary school, several people suggested I write something. At first I thought I would talk about how you could explain this to your children; you know the standard psychologist bullet points.

But all of that seemed artificial in the wake of this devastation. The mother of a four-year-old boy told me she cried all day Friday. I said in response t

hat the whole country is crying. Our hearts are broken. Sure, our minds get active with a million thoughts about what happened. But the great pain is because our hearts are broken. So what can be done about broken hearts?

Love deeply and gently what is in great pain. Hold your broken heart tenderly. You don't have to do anything, just feel and allow your heart to cry about this reality of our lives.

Love what is most vulnerable; your children, those children, all children. And hold these tender hearts gently with deep love and painful knowledge that all of your love cannot make them less vulnerable.

As your heart heals, as it will, there will be scar tissue with the wound is. That scar tissue is a reminder to love what is most vulnerable.

Award-winning poet Ellen Bass also tells us how to heal our hearts and the world.

- Dan Gottlieb

Pray for Peace

Pray to whoever you kneel down to:
Jesus nailed to his wooden or marble or plastic cross,
his suffering face bent to kiss you,
Buddha still under the Bo tree in scorching heat,
Yahweh, Allah, raise your arms to Mary
that she may lay her palm on our brows,
to Shekinhah, Queen of Heaven and Earth,
to Inanna in her stripped descent.

Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, Record Keeper
of time before, time now, time ahead, pray. Bow down
to terriers and shepherds and siamese cats.
Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.

Pray to the bus driver who takes you to work,
pray on the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus
and for everyone riding buses all over the world.
If you haven't been on a bus in a long time,
climb the few steps, drop some silver, and pray.

Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM,
for your latté and croissant, offer your plea.
Make your eating and drinking a supplication.
Make your slicing of carrots a holy act,
each translucent layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.

Make the brushing of your hair
a prayer, every strand its own voice,
singing in the choir on your head.
As you wash your face, the water slipping
through your fingers, a prayer: Water,
softest thing on earth, gentleness
that wears away rock.

Making love, of course, is already a prayer.
Skin and open mouths worshipping that skin,
the fragile case we are poured into,
each caress a season of peace.

If you're hungry, pray. If you're tired.
Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day.
Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth.
Pray to the angels and the ghost of your grandfather.

When you walk to your car, to the mailbox,
to the video store, let each step
be a prayer that we all keep our legs,
that we do not blow off anyone else's legs.
Or crush their skulls.
And if you are riding on a bicycle
or a skateboard, in a wheel chair, each revolution
of the wheels a prayer that as the earth revolves
we will do less harm, less harm, less harm.

And as you work, typing with a new manicure,
a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail
or delivering soda or drawing good blood
into rubber-capped vials, writing on a blackboard
with yellow chalk, twirling pizzas, pray for peace.

With each breath in, take in the faith of those
who have believed when belief seemed foolish,
who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.

Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace,
feed the birds for peace, each shiny seed
that spills onto the earth, another second of peace.
Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.

Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk.
Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child
around your VISA card. Gnaw your crust
of prayer, scoop your prayer water from the gutter.
Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling
your prayer through the streets.

how you climb up the mountain is just as important as how you get down the mountain. and, so it is with life, which for many of us becomes one big gigantic test followed by one big gigantic lesson. in the end, it all comes down to one word. grace. it’s how you accept winning and losing, good luck and bad luck, the darkness and the light.